


A spell for discovering light in darkness

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: A Magic Book Made Them Do It, Jonathan Strange is unfairly pretty, M/M, Magical Bondage, Martin Pale please don’t look, Norrell is awkward, Shame in Sexual Desires, disreputable sex magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: “Be easy, Mr. Strange,” he said, as much for his own benefit as the other magician’s. “On rare occasions a spell will call for these things. Think of this as a part of our magical practice, nothing more.”Jonathan Strange attempts to solve a problem, and in doing so causes Mr. Norrell distress and happiness in almost equal measure.
Relationships: Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	A spell for discovering light in darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (Jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehane/gifts).



“Mr. Strange!” Mr Norrell exclaimed. “Cover yourself up at once.”

“Believe me, sir,” said Jonathan Strange, forcing a smile that might have been reassuring were he not speaking through gritted teeth, “nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Well,” said Mr. Norrell, quite at a loss as to where to look. “Don’t think I can’t guess how _this_ came about.”

Jonathan Strange’s arms were pinned above his head. His legs were spread in a manner that could only be described as obscene, although it was clear that they were held in place by some invisible means. Norrell’s eyes darted from his unbound wrists to his unbound ankles, doing his best to avoid everything in between. He scurried behind Strange to the desk where a book lay open.

“Mr Norrell—” Strange began, but was interrupted by Norrell’s cry of dismay. “Mr Norell, will you—?”

“Charles de Marveille, of all people? Utterly disreputable. Utterly disreputable and thoroughly discredited. Really, sir, I do think you might have learned better by now.” 

Norrell looked up, only to realise too late that he was no better off looking at Jonathan Strange’s bared back than at his front. He swallowed, averting his gaze in the direction of the nearest bookcase. His bust of Martin Pale stared reproachfully back at him from a shelf, and for a guilty moment he was tempted to turn it to face the wall. He looked back down at the book.

“‘A spell to discover light in the darkness,’” Norrell read from the page that Strange had left open. He looked up at that, the words tugging at something curious within him that he could not quite explain. “Are our lamp oil reserves running low?” he asked, feeling foolish.

“I didn’t have the lamps in mind, no,” said Strange. “Really, if you don’t mind, this is d—ed uncomfortable. Is there a way of dispelling these…?” He made a grunting noise that Norrell couldn’t interpret until he looked up to see that Strange was straining to look over his shoulder at him. When Strange caught his eye, he jerked his head upwards, indicating the invisible force that bound his wrists.

Mr. Norrell looked up at Strange’s wrists. Like the rest of him, they were indecently uncovered. 

“And what, exactly, did you hope to achieve with this?” he grumbled, not entirely certain that he wished to hear the answer. He had, in fact, had an inkling that there was a spell of this sort buried in de Merveille and had been inclined to hide the book away entirely. But since entering the darkness, he could no longer bring himself to hide books from Jonathan Strange. He now considered it a shameful, grasping activity, no longer the sensible precaution it had once seemed. 

Unfortunately, while Strange seemed somewhat more receptive to his advice since their entering the darkness, he was no more likely to accept that one form of magic was any less worthwhile than any other. And so, it seemed, there was nothing to stop him from rampaging through books that Norrell would never have permitted him to see before, let alone touch or read.

Strange was glaring at him over his shoulder now. “Isn’t it obvious? The spell is to discover light in the darkness. It seemed pertinent to our situation.”

Mr. Norrell felt the beginnings of a protest rise up within him but allowed them to die in his throat. Why shouldn’t Strange search for a way out of their curse? His world was in England, after all. Norrell permitted himself to reply simply, “well, you ought not attempt these spells without me. This one was translated from medieval French, you know. And copied out—”

“And copied out dozens, perhaps hundreds of times, losing a little in each transcription. Yes, sir, I am very much aware.”

“And yet you persist in attempting it. With no thought to the consequences!”

“And yet—” Strange broke off. “Listen, if you must argue with me, could you at least move in front of me? Twisting myself around like this is hardly helping matters.”

“I do not need to look at you to argue with you,” Norrell grumbled, but he obligingly picked up the book and moved around to stand in front of Strange. 

Strange visibly relaxed in his invisible bonds.

“Thank you,” he said, and smiled. His chest rose and fell. Norrell watched it for a moment before catching himself and raising his eyes. There was a fine glimmer of sweat on Strange’s brow.

“Good heavens,” said Norrell. His hand moved to the handkerchief in his pocket, but he caught himself and allowed it to fall to his side instead. “Just how long have you been trapped like this?”

If Jonathan Strange could have shrugged, he would have done so. Instead he cocked his head. “Time is not exactly an easy thing to measure here, as you know. But I’d hazard a guess at roughly an hour.”

“Well,” Norrell said. His voice had half escaped him as his mind conjured up the image of Strange enduring an hour in this condition, his limbs unnaturally stretched by forces beyond his control. His eyes crept downwards and this time — purely out of concern for Strange’s wellbeing, of course — he did not resist the impulse. Strange’s limbs were trembling imperceptibly. And. When Norrell’s gaze snapped guiltily back to his face looked up again, he realised that Strange’s eyes had fallen closed.

They were only standing a few feet apart. If Mr. Norrell were a little braver, or of a little less reputable character, he might have closed that distance with a step. And then…

And then...

His imagination failed him, as it so often did. He swallowed. It was for the best. An absence of imagination was no great virtue in a magician, but it at least kept him from overstepping his boundaries where Jonathan Strange was concerned.

“Sir.” Strange’s voice had taken on a strangled tone. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Mr. Norrell. “Are you well?”

“Quite well,” Norrell replied, his voice half an octave higher than it ought to be.

“Then would you please consult that book of disreputable magic and find a way to get me out of this entanglement?”

Mr. Norrell was tempted to retort that he didn’t take well to being ordered about by his former pupil. But when he looked up at said former pupil, naked and restrained and only barely holding his temper in check, he had to admit that the prospect was, if anything, alarmingly appealing. He lowered his eyes to his book, firmly ignoring the way his pulse picked up.

“The book does not list a counter spell,” he said, frowning though there was no surprise in that. “Reckless. Have I not always said, Mr. Strange, that de Marveille was reckless?”

“Then perhaps you have another suggestion?”

Mr. Norrell sighed. “You were attempting to dispell darkness,” he said. “And somehow that resulted in...” he gestured towards the results of Strange’s experiment, averting his eyes.

“You need hardly be so delicate, sir.” Strange retorted. “Yes. I was blamelessly doing my best to free us from this fairy curse, and wound up utterly naked and without the use of my hands. Believe me, if you wish me to feel chastened, the work is already done.” 

Norrell looked up at that, meeting Strange’s eyes for the first time since walking into this utterly frustrating situation. And yes, to his surprise, he detected a glimmer of vulnerability in Strange’s expression. It was well disguised behind Strange’s characteristic combination of bravado, irritability and peculiar charm. But it was there: Exhaustion, most likely. Or perhaps a hint of fear.

Mr. Norrell must have turned a little pale at the sight, because Strange’s lips curled upwards a little. “So you see? There is no need to scold me, Mr. Norrell.”

“Oh, Mr. Strange,” Norrell said, irritation subsiding into dismay. Setting the book on a side table, he hurried forward, as much to reassure himself as to comfort Strange. “Surely you know that you have nothing to fear. Not when I am here in the darkness with you.”

“Whether I like it or not,”Strange said with a despairing kind of laugh. The words stung, though Norrell knew the truth of them well enough. But Strange must have caught sight of his reaction because his smile softened. “But you are quite right, sir. Surely this should be no obstacle to the two great magicians of the age.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve tried to pull yourself free?” Norrell suggested.

Strange rolled his eyes a little, as if offended by the very suggestion that he might not have tried such an obvious measure. But he obligingly tugged at the invisible bonds for a moment or two. Norrell tried not to notice the way the muscles moved beneath his taut abdomen. Instead, his eyes were drawn to a long scar that ran down Strange’s side. There was another on his thigh: A pale, jagged line. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s a reminder that things could be worse.” Strange’s tone was curiously philosophical. Norrell started guiltily, his throat heating as he realised he’d been caught looking where he should not. But there was no rancour in Strange’s expression.

“If I’d had my way, you never would have gone to the Peninsula,” Norrell muttered. Now that he had observed the larger scars, he could not help but notice fainter, less obvious marks scattered across Strange’s chest and arms.

Strange shrugged at that, as though five different retorts had occurred to him at once and he couldn’t decide which one to deploy first. 

Norrell made a small sigh. His eyes followed the line of a scar that began at Strange’s hip and wound backwards. It was not right to look, of course. But Strange had already caught him looking and had not reprimanded him. So perhaps, he thought, there was no great harm in it. Perhaps there was no harm in letting his eyes wander to the smooth, unmarked patches of skin. To the dusting of hair across Strange’s torso and then even lower…

He looked up sharply, his heart pumping faster. Strange was contemplating him, wearing a curious expression.

“A spell to find light in the darkness,” Strange said thoughtfully, as if turning the words over.

Norrell swallowed. It was treacherous, magic like this. It could send a man hurtling forwards when he might ordinarily pause for reflection. “Take care, Mr. Strange,” he said. But his eyes were still drawn to places they should not be. He moistened his lip.

“Mr. Norrell.” Strange’s voice was curiously rough, and when Norrell met his eyes, they were darker than usual. A little wilder, with a little more of the madness he had found within himself in Venice and never entirely thrown off. Strange was looking at Norrell as though he had never seen him before.

“Please, Mr. Strange,” Norrell said. He felt a vicious churning in the pit of his stomach. No good would come of this. Set Jonathan Strange on a course and he would hurtle down it, trampling everything in his path. Invisible bonds were no more use against him than his former tutor. 

“I cast a spell to discover light in the darkness,” Strange said. His eyes met Norrell’s and he smiled. It was not the curious twist of a smile he usually wore. This was a rarer kind of smile: One that was usually enough to lift Mr. Norrell’s spirits for an entire afternoon. Even now, with that smile spelling nothing but misery and dread once the effects of the spell were lifted, it eased a little of Mr. Norrell’s anxiety. Jonathan Strange laughed, as though he could not believe the simplicity of his solution. “And here you are.”

A thousand sensible retorts came instantly to Mr. Norrell’s lips. Where else would he be? He had, in fact, been here before Strange attempted this wretched spell of his. And he would doubtless be here once the spell was undone, so Strange would do well to tread carefully. Each answer fell away before he could speak it. Instead he said, “but, of course I am, Mr. Strange.”

“A funny kind of light,” said Strange. His gaze moved over Norrell, as though assessing Norrell from an entirely new perspective. The scrutiny was hardly reassuring and Norrell wished he were back at the relative safety of the small table behind Strange. He wished he were still clutching de Merveille’s accursed book, for all that it had caused so much trouble in the first place. Standing before Jonathan Strange, whose eyes were still bright with sudden interest, he felt as though he were the one who was naked.

“Still, I suppose it would have been cruel to summon up Arabella. Or Colqhoun Grant, for that matter,” said Strange after a long moment. “We must be grateful for small mercies, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Norrell, who was rapidly drawing the same conclusions as Strange was, and who did not feel grateful in the least. He looked at Strange’s lips and wondered whether this would be easier if they were not quite so distracting. Perhaps it would be worse if Mr Strange were an unattractive man, but Mr. Norrell did not think so. “Yes, indeed.”

Strange looked at Norrell expectantly. Norrell looked back at him. He had a good idea what Strange was waiting for, but it seemed impertinent to act without an invitation. Particularly with Strange at such an obvious disadvantage. The silence stretched between them. Strange’s chest rose and fell.

“I don’t wish to sound ungrateful,” said Strange. He was not looking at Norrell’s eyes now, and his voice was thick with some emotion Norrell could not name. “But my arms are beginning to ache.”

“Ah,” said Norrell. He drew closer, lifting a hand to Strange’s cheek where he hesitated, not yet touching. “May I…?”

“If you _please_ , sir,” said Strange, relief and exasperation equally clear in his voice. And Norrell could not resist such a demand. He brushed a thumb against Strange’s high cheekbone. Strange allowed his eyes to fall closed at the touch. A sign of success? Or merely a sign that Strange wished to imagine some other person’s caress?

It did not matter, Norrell reminded himself with a ferocity he did not quite believe in. They were not lovers.

“Be easy, Mr. Strange,” he said, as much for his own benefit as the other magician’s. “On rare occasions a spell will call for these things. Think of this as a part of our magical practice, nothing more.”

Strange nodded, still smiling as though he were privy to some private joke that no one had thought to let Norrell in on. He turned his head against Norrell’s hand and his lips found the centre of Norrell’s small, dry palm. Norrell shivered, as much at the curious sensation as at the sight of Jonathan Strange, his eyes still closed, pressing impossibly soft lips to his skin.

Strange drew back, opening his eyes. “Mr. Norrell,” he said. There was a taut command in his voice, which Norrell might ordinarily have been inclined to resist. Instead he braced a hand on Strange’s shoulder, rose up on his toes, and pressed his lips clumsily against Strange’s.

The kiss had a curious effect on Strange. He sighed against Norrell’s lips and pressed his weight as close to Norrell as his invisible bonds would permit. Perhaps, Norrell thought, if Strange’s arms were free, he would clutch Norrell to him the way heroes and rakes did in the kind of novels that Strange had no doubt read. Perhaps he would take Norrell by the shoulders and drive him up against a wall, using his superior height and strength to hold Norrell in place as they kissed, his hands moving over Norrell’s body and pushing aside layers of clothing.

Well, thought Mr. Norrell, tightening his hold on Strange’s shoulder. Perhaps there was something to be said for invisible bonds.

“How do you feel, sir?” Norrell asked.

“Lighter,” said Strange. He sounded breathless. He sounded entranced.

Norrell closed his eyes. In his mind, he was constructing a long list of reasons why this adventure could only lead to heartache and misery. He added the sound of a breathless and entranced Jonathan Strange to that list. And then he sighed and leaned in and sought out those lips again. 

Strange exhaled in surprise. He pressed himself as close to Norrell as his restraints would permit, his mouth teasing at Norrell’s. Mr. Norrell’s hand crept into Strange’s hair, clutching and caressing the tangle of curls. How long had he wished to run his hands through Strange’s hair? He did not believe it had ever been a conscious wish, and yet he could not remember a time before he had wished for it. 

Norrell allowed his other hand to rest, scandalously, on Strange’s bare hip, feeling Strange’s smooth, warm skin and the sharp jut of his hipbone. He could touch any part of Strange he wished, he realised with a guilty thrill. There was nothing to stop him. Jonathan Strange was entirely at his mercy.

He pulled back, alarmed by the thought. Strange regarded him, his lips reddened by kisses and his hair even more unruly than usual. He wore a trusting expression, as though Norrell had never lied to him or caused him grief of any kind. It was a peculiar thing, to be trusted when he had done so little to earn such trust.

“Mr Strange,” he said, voice taut. “What would you like me to do?”

Strange had followed his eyes down to where Norrell’s hand was resting on his hip. He drew a trembling breath. “Perhaps you might move your hand a little, sir?” He shifted his weight a little closer to Norrell, pressing his thighs and hips up against Norrell’s front.

“ _Ah_ ,” said Mr. Norrell, who now had a very good idea of where Strange would like him to put his hand. He took a step backwards, if only to protect his breeches. Strange groaned and thrust helplessly as the touch withdrew.

“Sir! Put your hand back at once.”

“Erm.” Norrell hesitated. He could not say, in that moment, if he was hesitating out of concern for Strange’s virtue, for his own wellbeing or for another reason entirely. If he had been accused of enjoying the sight of a dark-eyed, needy Jonathan Strange a little more than was proper, he would have fervently denied it. “Are you quite sure about that?”

“Of all the things I expected to learn on this adventure of ours, ‘Gilbert Norrell is a tease,’ was not one of them.”

The words caused a curious collision of physical reactions in Mr. Norrell. Indignation clashed with an inexplicable, fluttering thrill. Still, it was as forthright an instruction as he could hope for. So reaching blindly, because he felt quite certain he should not be _looking_ , he drew his hand over the plane of Strange’s abdomen. He hesitated, startled by the firmness of Strange’s muscles, the way they moved beneath his skin as Strange drew breath. Finally, after a long moment’s hesitation and some muttered oaths on Strange’s part, he allowed the tips of his fingers to trace the underside of Strange’s length.

Strange’s hips jerked forward. He was half hard now and pressing up into empty air. “You might try a little harder than that,” he said. 

It was easier said than done. He had never touched another man so intimately. Had barely allowed himself to _think_ of such a thing. And yet here was Jonathan Strange, not only permitting it but demanding it. Norrell kissed him again, which seemed a good way to avoid looking Strange in the eye as he took hold of him. Strange groaned into his mouth.

Very well then, Norrell thought. We shall simply have to make the best of it.

The angle felt unnatural. All of the angles felt unnatural, in fact. Strange was just a little too tall to kiss comfortably. But his lips were soft and warm. And Mr. Norrell now realised that he that spent a great deal of time thinking about those lips. 

Strange exhaled harshly. He thrust up into Norrell’s fist, apparently having tired of waiting for Norrell to find the correct angle.

“Stay still,” he said, breathless, against Norell’s mouth. “That’s easy enough, isn’t it? Just keep your hand as it is and let me...” Another groan. Norrell felt an echoing tug in the pit of his stomach.

Norrell hid his face in Strange’s shoulder, concentrating merely on holding on to Strange as the two of them moved. He felt as though he had been swept up by some great force. As though, despite the fact that Strange’s arms were was the one who was bound and he was unfettered, he were riding a steep wave and could do nothing to command it. His only hope, he thought as Strange’s hips picked up a driving pace, would be to hold on and hope to make it through the experience in one piece.

It would be easier if Strange were capable of remaining quiet.

“Good. That’s good,” he gasped, his hips moving. “Now, be a good man and reach around me, will you?”

Norrell’s grip faltered. “Surely you don’t mean—”

“ _Now_ , Mr. Norrell.” Strange groaned, grinding himself against Norrell’s hand. “Wait. No. You’ll need to get your fingers wet first. Two fingers, I should think.”

Mr. Norrell swallowed. He must have hesitated a fraction too long because Strange opened his eyes and met his gaze steadily. “That is, if you’re willing?”

It would have been easier not to be asked, Norrell thought. It would be easier still if the magic had simply seized them and made its demands clear without leaving them to flounder and figure the wretched business out for themselves. But here they were.

“I suppose,” said Norell after some consideration (and not a little squirming on Strange’s part). “If it will free you, we must do what we must.”

Strange flashed him an unnerving grin that reminded Norrell, of all things, of the impertinent way Childermass used to smile at him. It filled him with a guilty heat and he looked away, bringing his free hand up to Strange’s lips. “Go on then,” he said, as brusquely as he could manage.

He did not watch as Strange’s lips closed around his fingers. Instead he examined the rows of books on the far wall, trying his best to recall the order of the aureate magicians, the dates of their births, the names of their fairy servants and anything else he could think of that was not Jonathan Strange’s mouth, his tongue warm and wet and all too talented.

He found, to his dismay, that half of the Aureates’ names had quite vanished from his mind. And worse, he could not bring himself to focus on the names that were printed on the spines of his books. Instead, he allowed his gaze to lose focus until Strange pulled his mouth free.

“There,” said Strange, his voice rough. “Will you need further instruction or can you manage from here?”

Norrell released a shuddering breath against Strange’s shoulder. He reached around to find Strange’s parted cheeks and his entrance. He hesitated, his finger teasing but not quite penetrating. The situation was far from ideal. But Strange made a desperate, impatient sound and that settled the matter. Norrell tightened his grip on Strange and pressed in. Strange twisted in his invisible bonds, first driving himself forward into Norrell’s hand and then backwards onto his finger. 

It was not polite to watch, Norrell thought. Strange had enlisted his help as a fellow magician and, perhaps, even as a friend. Not as a voyeur. But how could he look away? It would test the limits of far stronger wills than Norrell’s. When he eased in a second finger, Strange pressed his mouth to Norrell’s throat, just below his ear, and Norrell allowed himself to put aside questions of propriety. There was room for nothing in his mind but the shock of lips and teeth and warm breath against his skin. 

“That’s right,” Strange was muttering, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps. “Twist your fingers.” Norrell shifted his grasp a little and Strange hissed, angling his hips and pressing backwards onto Norrell’s hand. Strange’s eyes fell closed and his whole body shuddered. He gasped softly, and the sound of it somehow felt as though he had ran a hand down Norrell’s spine. 

There was a growing ache between Norrell’s legs. He ignored it, concentrating instead on the angle Strange had demanded he find. He pressed deeper, hoping to send that curious, convulsive wave through Strange again. So intent was Mr. Norrell, in fact, on gratifying another person before himself that it did not even occur to him to find a way of easing his own discomfort. This moment of rare selflessness would recall itself to both magicians on separate occasions some days later and astonish at least one of them.

For now, Norrell tightened his grip, watching as Strange continued his jerking thrusts. Strange had acquired a rhythm now, pressing first up into Norrell’s fist and then backwards with a groan. His eyes were squeezed closed, as if in intense concentration. Now that he’d found the angle he was seeking, he ground himself onto Norrell’s fingers again, harder this time. He was opening and stretching, his whole body pale and hot, a single bright point at the centre of the darkness. And there it was. Strange let out a shuddering gasp, his eyes falling open as he spilled himself over Norrell’s hand.

They stood together for a long moment, Jonathan Strange panting and Norrell still indecently close to him. And then, without warning, Strange’s wrists were freed and all of his weight was unexpectedly on Mr Norrell’s shoulders. And then, as the laws of physics persisteven within the fairy realm, the two of them were in a heap on the ground. Mr. Norrell was still mostly clothed and greatly distraught, while Jonathan Strange remained entirely naked, warm and heavy with exhaustion.

Mr. Norrell made a small, pitiful sound. Strange was draped across his front, warm and sleepy-eyed and damp with sweat. Norrell’s interest had not waned, despite his best efforts to ignore his body’s demands. And from the way Strange’s body was pressed against him, there was no hope he would not observe the evidence of that interest.

A part of Norrell wanted nothing more than to throw Strange off, roll over and curl in on himself. A more sensible part of him had to admit that Strange was heavy enough that doing so might prove tricky. And a treacherous, insidious part of him thought it better not to risk the attempt, just in case Strange obliged him by sitting up.

After a moment, Strange stirred. To Mr. Norrell’s simultaneous relief and horror, it seemed that he had no intention of sitting up. He propped up his chin, resting an elbow on Norrell’s chest, and studied him with a sleepy, curious expression.

“Mr. Strange,” said Norrell, feeling not unlike an insect beneath a microscope. 

Strange acknowledged this half-protest but did not change his course of action. His hand moved idly on Norrell’s body, fingers lazily plucking at buttons. He had Norrell’s waistcoat half unfastened before Norrell settled on a way to interject without stopping him entirely. He took hold of Strange’s wrist.

“Mr Strange,” he said, speaking carefully as though the wrong combination of words might break whatever spell had been cast upon him. “What are you doing?”

“Returning a favour, I believe,” said Strange. He flashed a charming smile. “Do you have any particular requests? Any long-buried fantasies I might fulfil?”

“You needn’t mock me, Mr Strange.”

“By no means,” Strange’s tone was languid, his hand moving slowly but certainly on Norrell’s clothing. The waistcoat came open entirely and Strange moved to toy with the necktie. “I was inconvenienced by that spell for some time, and now I find myself in a particularly generous mood.”

Norrell swallowed. “There’s no need,” he said, shivering as Strange pulled his necktie free. Strange’s thumb stroked along his throat and then moved down to pluck more buttons open. Norrell released a choked breath.

“Are you sure, sir?” There was a note of amusement in Strange’s tone. He lowered his head to press his mouth to at Norrell’s exposed collarbone. There was a scrape of teeth and then a hand, firm and confident, took hold of Norrell through his breeches. “You were most considerate with me just now. It was quite unlike you.” 

The touch, much-needed as it was, sent a surge of alarm through Norrell. Strange’s thumb traced the outline of his erection with idle curiosity. Any hope of keeping this particular secret from Jonathan Strange was lost. And yet, Strange was still before him, the effects of the spell quite gone and his eyes still fixed on Norrell’s. 

“What would you like?” Strange said. His tone had softened a little.

“I would like you to think, if you please, before consulting disreputable books of magic,” said Norrell, his eyes on the ceiling.

“Granted,” said Strange. He did not move his hand. “Or at least, I shall do my best. What else?”

“I would like-” Norrell’s breath hitched as Strange’s hand moved coaxingly upon him. “I would like it if none of this had happened.”

“Certainly, certainly,” soothed Strange. “But even so.”

“I would like to have a servant — just one — to make up my bed for me and run baths in the evening.” A long, shuddering breath. “Perhaps cook a little.”

“Would you like me to continue?” asked Strange, his hand still moving.

“I would like,” Norrell broke off. His hips moved, as if of their own accord, up into Strange’s touch. He looked for a moment as though he were trying to say something quite impossible. Finally he swallowed and said, “I would prefer not to stain my clothing.”

“Ah.” Strange’s hand stilled. Then it began to withdraw. Norrell let out a thoroughly undignified yelp at the loss of contact. He reached down himself to unfasten his breeches and push them hastily out of the way. “ _Ah_ ,” said Strange.

“I suppose,” Norrell said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “As you seem to be dead set on the matter.”

And then he could not say anything else, because Strange was kissing him. Without the aid of magic, without deceit or coercion or the intervention of a fairy, Jonathan Strange was kissing him. It was unthinkable.

Strange’s hand worked deftly between them, drawing him to full hardness with teasing strokes. There was a curious amusement in it, as there was in everything Strange did, unsettling and stirring in equal measure. It reminded Norrell of late evenings in Hanover-square, watching Strange experiment with spells: Of the way Strange would tolerate Norrell’s corrections with a polite smile and then improve on them with an off-handed gesture, transforming them into something dazzling as if entirely by mistake.

Norrell groaned into Strange’s mouth, still unused to kissing and overwhelmed by the experience. When Strange withdrew, his lips moving first to Norrell’s throat and then his chest, Norrell was not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching with caught breath as Strange moved lower.

“Mr Strange,” he said, because propriety called for at least a token protest. His exposed flesh strained towards Strange, speaking more plainly than he had the will to. “Surely you don’t mean to—”

Strange flashed him that enigmatic smile and breathed warm, damp air over him. His tongue flickered out to swipe roughly over sensitive flesh. “Would you like me to?”

“I would,” said Mr. Norrell. And Strange’s smile at that was worth the struggle of the admission.

“Delighted to hear it, sir,” said Strange, and he lowered his head and set to work.

Norrell’s elbows rapidly gave way. Strange was as enthusiastic in this as he was in his practice of magic, his mouth moving sloppily over Norrell as he found his rhythm. He was not technically proficient: Norrell yelped a little at the scrape of teeth and a too-tight grip. He quickly grew too ambitious, first swallowing too much and then breaking off with a fit of coughing.

“Sorry,” Strange’s tone was rueful. “It’s been some time since I last attempted this.”

Norrell nodded, running a hand through Strange’s curls and suddenly at a loss for words. As Strange’s mouth closed around him again, he was struck by the image of Strange bending over some other man just as he was now. The idea had never occurred to Mr. Norrell before, but now it conjured up equal parts fascination and despair.

Because Norrell had little interest in Strange’s particular affairs, he had no thought as to which man or men Jonathan Strange might have enjoyed such relations with before. So in the absence of options, he substituted faces he remembered best from his time in London: Strange crowded between Henry Lascelles and Christopher Drawlight; Strange dropping to his knees for Sir Walter Pole; Strange allowing Childermass to press him up against a wall in Hanover-square. It was obscene, he thought, his hips moving as if of their own accord. Disgraceful behaviour in a married man.

 _A married man_. The unexpected thought of Mrs. Strange drained a little of the thrill from the moment. Mrs. Strange, for whom Strange had crossed worlds and defeated beings of great power. Whose name, even now, was never far from any conversation. He glanced at de Merveille’s book of magic, still lying open a few feet away, suddenly choked by the knowledge he’d done his best to ignore. This was the magic Strange had been attempting: He had been seeking an escape.

Mr Norrell tightened his fist in Strange’s hair, a little more roughly than a gentleman would have done. But Strange did not protest or push back against his hand, merely allowed himself to be guided. Or, perhaps more correctly, he permitted Norrell the illusion of guiding him.

“I would like—” Norrell began and then broke off. Strange’s mouth was such a sweet, unexpected pleasure. The slightest word could throw the moment off balance. He stifled himself, but too late. Strange glanced upward, his mouth still stretched around Norrell, as if to urge him onwards. 

“I would like it if nothing changed,” Norrell said at last. He kept his hand in Strange’s hair, half petting and half clutching as if his hold were enough to keep Jonathan Strange in one place. His hips moved urgently. Now that he was allowing himself to speak, it seemed his only hope was to finish before he said too much. “I would like to continue practicing magic as we have done. I would like to leave England to take care of herself. I would like this to be _enough_ —”

Perhaps Jonathan Strange sensed where Mr. Norrell was leading and resolved to pull them both to a safer path. Or perhaps his natural talent outweighed his lack of finesse in this, as it did in so many things. Whatever the reason, he chose that moment to apply himself with more diligence, taking in more and with a firmer suction. He tightened his hold on Norrell’s hips, pinning him in place so that he could no longer thrust upwards. But there was no need to, because then Strange’s mouth was moving lower still and whatever Norrell had been going to say was lost in a mess of incoherent pleas.

Afterwards, Strange released Mr. Norrell and used a handkerchief to wipe him with an unexpected tenderness. And then, instead of rising, he folded his arms across Norrell’s torso, pillowing his head on them. Norrell’s hand was still in his hair, moving uncertainly through unruly curls. But after a moment he allowed it to drop to the floor.

“Mr. Strange,” he began, unsure what he might say next but incapable of holding his tongue. “I hope you don’t think I—”

Strange held up a hand and did not raise his head. “A moment please, sir,” he mumbled into Norrell’s shirt front, the words vibrating through cloth and across Norrell’s skin. “Give a fellow some time to recover, will you?”

“I do have work to be getting on with,” said Norrell, trying to locate a manageable emotion under the circumstances and settling on peevishness. He had come into the library with a purpose, after all. Though he could not remember, now that he thought about it, why he had come into the library at all. Or rather, he could think of nothing more specific than the ever-present reason that the library was filled with books, papers, comfortable chairs and, more often than not, Jonathan Strange.

“No need to rush,” replied Strange. There was a melancholy creeping into his tone, which Norrell did not like at all. His hand found Norell’s and closed around it. “I believe we will be here for some time.”

“Should you find a way to return to her,” said Norell haltingly, “you know that I would be more than willing to assist with the magic. Whatever it may take.” And to his surprise, having said it he realised it was the truth. As little as he wished to see Strange and his wife reunited — and as little as he wished to see Strange leave this curious, quiet prison of theirs — he found that he could no longer bear the sight of Strange’s unhappiness.

And, he admitted to himself, their present circumstances made him generous. It seemed unlikely, after all, that even their combined powers would be sufficient to break the fairy’s curse.

“That’s very generous of you,” Strange said, but he did not sound any happier for it. Norrell observed his stillness, the unobtrusive weight of him and the cool clasp of his hand, as one might note that the stars still hung in the sky or that the moon, after waxing, had begun to wane. 

In the twilight of the library, Jonathan Strange’s body seemed to be cast in marble. A part of Norrell wished to run a hand through his hair again or press a hand to his cheek. But now, as the room cooled around them and the spell began to dissipate, it was as though the natural order of things had reasserted itself. And now, as before, Mr. Norrell’s own hands were the ones held back by forces he could neither see nor control.

Presently, Strange exhaled and then rose to his knees. Norrell stole a glance at him through half-lidded eyes, perhaps committing his final glimpse of that long, scarred torso to memory. Strange stood, stretched and looked around. Perhaps, Norrell thought fancifully, he would simply leave Norrell in peace on the floor of the library. Perhaps Norrell might never stand up again.

“I suppose,” Strange said carefully, “I ought to get dressed.”

“I suppose you ought to,” said Mr Norrell, his own voice sounding distant and small. There was something unpleasant settling itself at the edges of his vision. The kind of headache that would put him out of commission for the best part of a week — or whatever passed for a week in the darkness.

“I—” Strange glanced at the door and then down at Mr. Norrell. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Perhaps you might join me.” 

Norrell looked up. “You need help... dressing?”

Strange looked a little embarrassed. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Norrell blinked rapidly. He struggled to his knees and then to his feet. Strange offered him a steadying hand, which he accepted, still blinking. When he did not immediately let the hand go, Strange did not protest. It was quite extraordinary.

“Do you feel a lingering effect of the spell, Mr. Strange?”

“No,” said Strange. He had still not let go of Mr. Norrell’s hand. “It is merely... I would prefer not to be alone just at the moment.”

“I see,” said Mr. Norrell. In truth, he felt less equipped to deal with this revelation of Strange’s than he would have done with a more mystical ailment. Still, he thought, he might still find a way to be useful under the circumstances. He opened the great heavy door of the library and laid a hand on Jonathan Strange’s elbow, guiding him into the corridor and towards the room in Hurtfew where Strange slept.

”Come, sir,” he said.


End file.
